


Amber and Quicksand

by Adadzio



Series: Character/Relationship Studies [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi, ship all the things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-05-28 23:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6349426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of all my non-Lobster Flambe drabbles, because I ship literally everyone in ASOIAF ~</p><p><b>iv.</b> <i>Davos would rather worship a mortal man scarred and wasting and weary to the bone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sapphire

She is taller than he, and flatter in the chest. 

That joke earns him a solid punch in the face. Jaime does not mind. “It is charming,” he says with a jaunty smile. Her scattered freckles are charming. Her crooked teeth; charming. Even her crooked nose.

_Brienne the Beauty._

She clutches the sheet to her chest— _flat as a board, mind you_ —and stares at the dappled ceiling. 

“Do you ever think we should just stop this?” 

Several moments pass in silence. 

“Oft I second guess my choice of bedmate. Especially when she beats me with her ugly fist in the middle of the act.” For once, the jape seems forced. 

“I mean it,” she spits. “Do you ever think— “ Light filters through the shutters, flashes in her eyes. She squints and scrunches them up. “Never mind.” She sits up awkwardly, great lumbering creature that she is, and makes to put on her armour—the armour he commissioned for her. 

There is an unfamiliar pang in his chest.

“No,” he says. She freezes. The air is heady with sweat and wine and streams of light, and they are both paralyzed with indecision.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his golden head. “I do not think about that. I never think about it.” 

The minutes tick by, and amber sun is the quicksand which leaks into the room. Eventually she lies stiffly back on the bed, and he releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

_His Maid of Tarth._

In a coat of gold or a coat of red, she would still be ugly. But the ceiling is flooded with late afternoon sun, and her blue armour glistens in the corner, and her eyes shine like the sapphire sea.


	2. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alayne/Sansa and Petyr from [Storms of Red](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4658481?view_full_work=true). Is it bad I miss these two?

"He'll improve over time," said Petyr, the hint of a smirk at his mouth.

Alayne raised an eyebrow and pretended to watch as little Sweetrobin was struck down—yet again—in combat practice. In truth she was observing Lord Baelish from the corner of her eye, memorizing that sharp grey gaze, the lips which always felt calculating in their kisses, the silver mockingbird glinting with sunlight at his neck. Further down; the way his slight shoulders dipped and made a straight column down his back, the fine clothing which enveloped him like a second skin. She took in each detail of him, storing everything away for when it would truly matter. 

"He'll be your husband some day," Petyr was promising. "You'll be Lady of the Vale, Wardeness of the East. And then..." He trailed off, studying her reaction.  _Yes, and then, my lord?_  Littlefinger always spoke in the future sense. Always planning. 

_Always plotting._

Oh, she knew. That silly, romantic girl had died long ago.

 _You've been waiting for this your whole life, haven't you, my lord?_  Alayne allowed him to wait a bit longer, smiling as the breeze kissed her cheeks. The Arryn sigil caught her eye, flying proud above the Eyrie. 

"As high as honour," she mused aloud.

A genuine grin tugged at his lips, and beneath the guise of Littlefinger, she caught a glimpse of the man called Petyr. There was no mockery in his voice when he spoke. "You have learned well, my darling mockingbird." She kept her lips in a straight line, trying not to be charmed by the softening lines around his eyes.

Was this truly the manipulator who had taught her the art of deception? The heartless lord who had taken her from her husband, had killed her aunt and Joffrey and— _gods knew how many others_ —had charmed the lords of the East to her favor, to his will? Destroyed all dissent until the Vale sang of their ambition, as high as honour? 

She tried to find Littlefinger now, but saw only Petyr before her. Here was the man she'd discovered little by little, peeling away the layers of his identity as she did those fine clothes. He played aloof when he came to her rooms, even when he wound up in her bed, but she had chipped at his walls too persistently for that. His grey gaze betrayed warmth in her presence. 

Petyr was enticing, no doubt of it. She wanted to enjoy his cunning smile, to let her guard down for one moment, but she forced herself not to make the same mistakes as him. 

"I had a wise teacher," she said, flashing a bright smile.  


	3. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen x Rickon <3

_He has bright eyes,_  she thought, heart pounding fast. 

Lord Rickon stood strong, even at his young age.  _I'm painting the sky for you and me_ , his gaze seemed to say. The skies were very dark now, as they had been for years, but his eyes were a promise of distant spring. He had unruly auburn hair to match his sister's.

"My lord," she breathed. "It is fortunate to see an heir of Winterfell in good health." 

"Your Grace," he knelt, and his movements were as determined as those of a grown man. When she indicated he rise with a slender hand, he paused to study her openly. 

_He recoils at my scars, old and new._

Her heart fell further when she saw Ser Davos flinch out of the corner of her eye.  _He is father to me, having lost his own sons; he cannot bear to see my pain._

She glanced over to him, searching his eyes for some kind of answer.  _And what now, dear Knight? I need you to tell me how to be._

Yet Rickon startled her with that firm voice, never wavering. "Your Grace will forgive the way I stare." 

"And how?" she asked warily.  _Tell me, say the word, and I'll dream no further..._

An errant curl brushed his brow. "So deep and blue are your eyes, I thought I must have drowned in the sea." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [from [_The Longest Winter_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4595214)]


	4. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "stavos - apodyopis"

Perhaps it’s because Davos is slight of figure, but standing in the shadow of his king is something mighty and terrifying.  _Was it Elenei who mixed Durran’s blood with the sea, carving their sons rugged and tall from salty cliffs? Or was it Orys’s seed that strengthened these raven-haired Baratheons?_

(Stannis has little hair to marvel at past his thirtieth year, and truthfully shares little of Robert or Renly’s dashing looks, but that’s a minor point.)

Davos wonders about the rest of his liege lord. He imagines pulling at laces with clumsy hands to reveal his king’s virile strength, like a god rising above them all, all the way down to coarse black hairs around his manhood and thighs corded with muscle.  _Would Davos believe the bloody prophecies then, surrender his good conscience THEN, with a messiah’s body exposed before him?_

(Deep down he’d rather worship a mortal man scarred and wasting and weary to the bone.)

Davos is none of these things, neither divine nor dying. Though he borrows his name from that son of Orys, he’ll never be a hero of ancient lineage. And yet he is more than he was.  _What would Stannis think if he undressed his lowborn Hand? Would he recoil at his plainness, his greying hair and the fingers he himself mutilated? Would he sneer to know his blade had felt like a kiss on Davos’s knuckles?_

“My knight of fish and onions,” Davos hears him saying. The king’s blue eyes bore into him, and he feels naked as the day he was born.


End file.
